There's Blood on the Moon Tonight (3 page)

An adult has the capacity to doubt his own senses, Doc. But a kid knows what he
knows
. In the light of day my analysis might have seemed silly and vapid, even to a little creepo like me. But the night has its own set of truths. Even more inviolable than those of the brightly lit day.

Amused at his insight, Bud laughs huskily.

Eat your heart out, Rod Serling.

Plip. Plip. PLOP.

The hand…it waves at me again…beckoning me to come into the bathroom…

Yeah, sure. Be right there, asshole.

I swing my feet back on the floor, ignoring my instincts to curl up underneath the covers. It’s too late for that now. My pajama bottom is cold and wet and sticking to my legs. I keep my eyes on the spot of my bedroom wall where the light switch is. On knocking knees I begin the trek across the great divide. I take two steps, four, and it seems as if I’ve made no progress at all.

The light switch is so very far away.

Plip. Plip. PLOP.

I ignore the shadow bleeding across the floor. It seems to ooze from the john and into my bedroom with a malevolent force all its own. It steals over my foot, then beyond me, leaving its cold stain on my skin. Cold, like the pale chill of the stainless steel table in Doctor Bidwell’s office back home. After what seems like an eternity, I reach the threshold of my room…

Plip. Plip. PLOP.

An
STP
glow-in-the-dark sticker illuminates the space above the switch-plate with an ethereal glow. Got it with my dad’s last oil change. To no avail, I frantically flick the light switch up and down, up and down, until the sound of manic laughter floating out of the bathroom stops me in mid-flick. The tiled walls and floor lend the laughter an even colder resonance. Like a startled turtle hiding in its shell, my genitals make like Jimmy Hoffa and disappear.

Plip. Plip. PLOP.

I make myself peer into the bathroom. The hand is gone. Replaced now by the complete shadow of the beast. I say beast, because what little light there is behind it has outlined the features of a wild and hairy creature. Except for the fires burning where its damn eyes ought to be, I can’t see its face. Nor can I make out anything but a dark outline. It takes a step towards me…

Its eyes grow larger. Brighter. Redder.

Plip. Plip. PLOP!

Oh, Doc, those eyes! Those floating eyes! Those blood-filled, glowing eyes! Coming right at me!
NO! NO!!

Huh? Oh…yeah…I’m okay. Nah, I don’t need a break—let’s just finish this fucking thing.

Patient takes a deep shuddering breath, lights a cigarette, and then continues…

Terrified, I backpedal, realizing it only when the backs of my knees encounter the mattress, causing me to collapse upon my bed. I feel the monster’s awful eyes lock onto mine, willing me to freeze. If only I could turn on a light! That would make it go—

The image of my Cub Scout flashlight pops into my head.
Of course!
I tear my gaze from the strange, red floating lights, and leap across my bed.

Plip. Plip. PLOP!

The dripping has become louder. More emphatic. The Boogeyman’s in the hall now and I know if I look up, I’ll finally be able to see its face, its form…and the reason for that terrible dripping. To do so, however, would sap what little courage I have left.

As if to confirm my fears, a vaguely familiar voice, from far, far away, screams out in my head.
!!!LOOK AWAY, BUDDY BOY! FOR GOD’S SAKE, LOOK AWAY!!!

For some reason the distant voice scares me even more than the Boogeyman, and I evict it from my head. I must focus on the task at hand!  I tear open the drawer, nearly pulling it free of its casters. Mickey tumbles off the table and hits the hardwood floor with a loud jangle. Loose marbles clatter and roll as I fumble in the cluttered drawer for the flashlight. Reaching past the bent and broken Slinky. Past my green army men and the set of chattering teeth, gums so red and dentures so white. Past my complete collection of
Mars Attacks!
trading cards, safely incased in an acrylic sleeve. On past the genuine Swiss Army knife with my initials carved into the sides, the Magic 8-Ball, my switchblade comb, and the tangle of hopelessly knotted Duncan yo-yos, to finally feel my fingers curl triumphant around the rubber grip of my Official Cub Scout flashlight.  
            
 
!!!PLIP! PLIP! PLOP!!!

The noise is deafening now! Surely, everyone on Moon is hearing this clamor! My hands tremble as I point the light at the monster’s feet. I can’t look the thing in the eye. Those red eyes. I just know that it would drive me insane to do so.
“Momma!”
I squeak, even though my mouth is open wide to scream. Like Al Pacino in
Godfather, Part Three
. When his daughter is killed. That long, silent, soul shattering shriek…

As always, the patient tends to draw parallels with his life and movies. Bud
,
I gently prod him.

Huh? Oh, sure. Where was I…oh, the smell. I can smell the rancid reek now. Like death, it fills my nostrils with a stench that can only be described as maggoty. And underneath that sour decay, the sharp moist tang of blood.

!!!PLIP! PLIP! PLOP!!!

The monster, hearing my mouse-like squeak, giggles again. The kind of giggles this place probably abounds with during a full moon. The sound of this soulless laughter makes the contents in my gut turn hot and loose. There’s just no reasoning with laughter like that. I try to push in the switch but I can’t stop crying. I want this thing to go away. I want to hear my mama say those five words she says every night after tucking me in nice and tight:

‘I love you, Buddy boy.’

I want to inhale the cool, medicinal aroma of her nightly application of Noxzema, not this graveyard stench invading my room.
“Oh mama, where are you?!” 

!!!PLIP! PLIP! PLOP!!!

I can sense the monster as it enters my bedroom, but I’m shaking so bad my hands are barely functioning. The Boogeyman’s shadow has fallen over me, swallowing me whole. Like a lion over a lost lamb. The darkness of its shadow has a suffocating weight to it, if that makes any sense. I can actually feel it pressing me down on the bed. And it’s this intangible weight, of all things, that breaks the spell. I close my eyes and focus on
simply
turning
on
the
flashlight
.
I feel the satisfying click, and I brandish the light as if it was a fucking sword. I swear I can hear it
Whoosh
!
on like Luke Skywalker’s light saber. I hold it aloft with both hands and slowly open one eye…

Plip. Plip. PLOP.

Quiet. The world is once more ghost quite.

The beam of the flashlight—yes, just a flashlight, nothing more—illuminates the intruder from the waist down. Naked. It-It’s naked, except for a pair of red socks…

No, not red socks…

As I stare uncomprehendingly at its wet feet, averting my eyes from the angry penis sticking straight out from the tangled, hairy crotch, a succession of three drops hits the left foot. The last one to fall is the fattest.

Plip. Plip. PLOP.

The sound barely registers. In what seems like slow motion I watch the blood splash off the serum soaked foot. My gaze lifts up until I see the cause of the dripping…

A lifetime passes. The image sears my mind, leaving the picture burned in there for all eternity. Cruel. Too cruel for words. It’s then I realize there are far
worse monsters in the world than are scotch-taped to my fucking bedroom wall.
Real
things to be scared of, Doc. 

The monster standing before me is a man.

!!!PLIP! PLIP! PLOP!!!

The sound returns with a roar! Tearing at my eardrums. But I’m beyond caring. I hear the gibbering laugh of the madman as he sees the light of reason flee my eyes. That’s why he came; you understand? Just to see that anguish in my eyes. I try to look away but neither my eyes nor the flashlight will obey my brain’s impulses. They remain focused on the obscenity in his grasp.

Except for those red soaked eyes, I never do see what the killer looks like.

My mind keeps screaming over and over:
Her Head! Her Head! Her Head! Her Head! Her Head! Her Head! Her Head! Her Head! Her Head! Her Head!

!!!PLIP! PLIP! PLOP!!!

I stare blankly at the ragged flesh on the neck. I can see the dental impressions ringing the tattered skin where the head has been brutally removed. Not by some sharp implement, mind you, but by this foul creature’s very teeth. There is one especially long piece of torn skin where the blood collects before dripping onto the monster’s feet. A bone, brilliant white, juts out of the neck. Like some convenient handle for maniacs.

The Red Eyed Man tosses the head, and I just sit there and watch it come at me. Time seems to stretch this moment out, frame by frame in my mind. The head slowly tumbles end over end, splattering my bed, the ceiling, the floor, and even my wall of make-believe monsters: 

                
 
Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat!

A drop hits me below the left eye, right before the head falls into my lap. The blood rolls down my cheek like a fat tear. How very fitting, you might say.

I stare down inanely at the head. How long, I don’t know. It’s heavy. So very heavy. Who knew a head could weigh so much? The smell of Noxzema floods my senses, though there’s none on her face. And I scream.

I scream and I scream and I scream and I scream and I scream and I scream and I scream and I scream…

Case File Appendage #3562-A

Patient
: Bud William Brown

Age
: 17 -
Height
: 6’ 4” -
Weigh
t: 225-Race/Sex:
White male
.

Follow up notes, case
#3562
. Patient:
Bud Brown
.
Interviewed by
Dr. Marc Ellis
. Patient was checked in after violent episode, in which he nearly beat to death a fellow student at his school on Moon Island, South Carolina. Due to this patient’s past history involving
P.T.S.S
, he was brought to this facility, rather than processed through regular channels. It was a wise decision. Patient is now lucid and calm. Remorseful of his actions, I believe. Although according to most witnesses, the victim of the assault instigated the incident. Medication at this time not deemed necessary, though continued therapy is strongly recommended. The preceding statement from patient is unfortunately more than just a nightmare;
incident actually took place on 10/13/96.
Patient has compartmentalized this horrific event in his life as a dream—although he is aware it is not. Recommend further stay at this time, intensive counseling. My main concern for the patient at this point is his insistence that the nightmares that have
followed
his mother’s murder may in fact be more than that. He feels they are glimpses into his future. And a dark future it must be (See appendages to this report, file
#3562-B&C
). Nevertheless, it doesn’t seem to have unduly affected him in his day-to-day life. My feeling is this is Bud’s way of trying to make sense of a horribly senseless act. Over time I think he will outgrow this need. More than most, Bud realizes life is a fleeting, fragile thing. Its destruction rarely makes sense. Home life of patient is quite stable, with a caring, understanding father. Only other relative is an estranged older sister who has moved away from home.

Recommend release date: Early August. 

                                                                           Dr. Marc Ellis

Ralph “Tubby” Tolson

June 1st, 2,004

Ralph “Tubby” Tolson hated new schools. He hated them almost as much as he hated the bullies who’d tormented him his entire life. This would be his
sixth
new school in as many years. That would be socially harsh for any kid; even if he were a well-built, good-looking boy—and Tubby was neither of those things. He’d always been fat, and not the kind of fat that lent him a size advantage over his peers. He was soft, his flesh yielding. Dimpled, where it had no business being dimpled. His mother called him “Husky,” which was mother-code for fat, but if Tubby’s tormentors had taught him one thing in life it was that Fat was Fat—nor did any of the politically correct terms for the morbidly obese change that fact one iota. At some point during Kindergarten, the other kids began calling him Tubby. The name had stuck, following him wherever he went, included in his school records and stamped on his forehead in indelible ink—or so it seemed to Ralph Emerson Tolson. The only people who called him by his given name anymore were his parents. Even his teachers referred to him as Tubby, which was actually all right by him.
Tubby Tolson
had a nice melodious ring to it. He certainly liked it better than
Ralph
—a bland name he ranked right up there with Eugene or Irving. Besides, it was an endearing nickname, given him by his peers, like Lefty or Curly.